The poet's pen hovered above a page that did not exist.
And still, he wrote—
recording what his [Divine Vision] revealed.
"A puddle of water,
A lake of water,
To those wandering souls,
This water did not exist.
But to me,
This water
Is as meaningful as the
White sun—
A lovely light."
— The Poet
He withdrew from the vision.
The white remained—
no color, no shape, no sound.
Only stillness. The kind that forgets your name.
Yet even without the sacred sight,
he knew:
This world had once been alive.
It had bloomed with scent, shimmered with music,
ached with the heat of battle and the hush of love.
But then—
a celestial, broken by grief,
unleashed silence upon it.
Not out of cruelty,
but sorrow so deep it bled through time.
The world was not destroyed.
It was erased.
Like a book burned by the hand that once wrote it.
To repent, the celestial gave humankind a burden:
a gift that sees not what is—
but what was.
A curse that remembers what should no longer be remembered.
It was called [Divine Vision].
And those who bore it became the archivists of a dead world.
To see the invisible.
To remember the forgotten.
To mourn what the gods buried in white.
Sightless closed his eyes.
The page may be blank.
But he would write it full—
even if he had to carve the ink from his soul.